


Cease and Seize

by flayrie



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/M, Smut, Wet Dream, eat the rich, ethical consumption under capitalism, vague holiday is vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29105316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flayrie/pseuds/flayrie
Summary: “Miss Dorothy,” he murmurs, wondering just how she pulled him into her gravity. “I fear we’ve made a scene.”
Relationships: Dorothy Catalonia/Quatre Raberba Winner
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15
Collections: Gundam Wing Holiday Matters 2020





	Cease and Seize

**Author's Note:**

> Wow submitting on the last day of the extended deadline with only the vaguest compliance to prompts. Good job, me. Vague holiday is vague and prompt is: ostentatious displays + "Don't know anyone at this party but you." Don't @ me, fam.

The chandelier’s golden glow reminds him a bit too much of the garish light that plagues his dreams. Bright yellow bouncing off long blonde hair. The sharp outline of a woman’s face. Soft lips moving to admonish him with a voice betraying a gentle air. These phantoms float into the space between his ears, overriding the sights and sounds around him. He lifts a champagne flute of sparkling rosewater to his nose, taking in the tingle from the fizz, breathing in the subtle florals. The crisp taste grounds him as he takes a sip, static sensation playing on his tongue. He holds his drink up to the light, watching the rest of high society swan around the ballroom through a lens of crystal and pink bubbles. There’s a sense of contentment as he sits alone at his table, watching the colors swim.

“Quatre Raberba Winner.”

The voice from his dreams calls out to him from behind, purring his name. Is she really _—_

He lowers his champagne flute, hand lifting to straighten his tie as he turns to look over his shoulder. Her waist is the first thing to meet his gaze, slender and cinched into a gown of black organza as she casts her shadow over him. He’s quick to snap his eyes up to her face, trying to ignore the way her off-the shoulder décolleté accentuates the dip of her cleavage. Her lipsticked mouth curves into a pale pink smirk, nice and subtle in color and contempt. She almost seems to float, pulling a chair out to sit at his table before he can even say a word.

Once seated, she toys with his glass, rubbing her forefinger in circles around the rim, making the crystal sing. “Have I driven you to drink?”

The words stick in Quatre’s throat as he swallows, trying not to stammer. “It’s non-alcoholic.”

For a second, her lips purse into a pout before a subtle smile slashes through. “The joys of vice still elude you then.”

All the while, she keeps the hum of the crystal at her fingertip, touching the ghost of his last sip. Tension coils in his belly as he watches her. How many times has she come to him in his sleep? Her long blonde hair fanned out under her head as he buried himself inside her. Every inch of her naked body begging for his hungry hands. Those bright blue eyes reflecting the heat in his own.

“How are you so sure?” he challenges, forcing an uneasy grin.

She lifts her finger from the crystal, tracing it over her bottom lip. “I can taste it.”

Had he no self-control, he would already be fucking her on the table. The cotton on his crisp white dress shirt feels almost abrasive against his skin. His black silk tie might as well be a noose. There’s a new-found heaviness to the sable suit jacket on his shoulders. The threat of a cold sweat makes him shudder as she stands, smearing the lipstick on her finger over his cupid’s bow. He takes it as a command to follow her before she can disappear into the crowd.

Though weak in the knees, he’s quick to rise, keeping pace with her on the floor. Her dress boasts an open back, baring even more flesh to him. He struggles to keep his head from swimming as she cuts through the crowd like a knife, drawing whispers. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees faint flashes amid the bodies swaying to Sinatra on holo. Cameras are de rigeur these days. Busybodies lack finesse for subterfuge but more than make up for it in number.

“Miss Dorothy,” he murmurs, wondering just how she pulled him into her gravity. “I fear we’ve made a scene.”

They stumble out of the ballroom, steps echoing against marble flooring in the cavernous hallway. Dorothy pauses to shoot him a look. “We’ve made many. Long before now.”

She reaches for his wrist, pulling him down the hall. “And one would think you’d know better than to call me ‘miss’ at this point.”

His pulse quickens at her touch though he can’t help but roll his eyes. Back when they attended school together, Dorothy insisted on formalities regardless of the wishes of whoever she happened to be addressing. Somehow, she found a way to use politeness as a taunt. He supposes it would be in his best interest to humor her as she carries on dragging him. “Will you tell me where we’re headed, Dorothy?”

He wonders if she can feel the pounding in his veins. There’s a fluidity to her long blonde hair, flanked by her shoulder blades, hanging loose down to the small of her back. In dreams, he’s caught those fine strands of gold between his fingers, breathing in the scent of night-blooming jasmine. That same perfume lingers in the air as he trails behind her. Her grip on him is gentle, easy enough to break should he choose to abandon this impulse.

They make a sharp turn at the end of the hall, and he carries on marching to the staccato beat of her heels against the floor. “In what color do you dream?” he prods.

The lights that flashed within the ZERO system lent the same wash of color to his visions of fucking her. They sensed each other through the void of space as he fought off her volleys of Mobile Dolls. Gold lit up her face in his mind’s eye as her name slipped from his lips. Some semblance of connection was forged between them on that day of carnage, and she hasn’t left his mind since.

His question is enough to turn her head.

“ _La vie en rose,_ ” she concedes, eyes narrowing as she glances at him over her shoulder. As he suspected, she shares his condition. She comes to a slow stop before a towering set of oaken double doors at the end of the corridor. His wrist slips from her fingers as she grasps the ornate brass door lever, pushing down on it to open the room beyond.

“How do you know this place so well?” he wonders aloud, keeping his voice soft. The last thing he wants is to turn this into an interrogation.

There’s a slight creak to the door as it opens, greeting them with the crackle of a lit fireplace. His eyes are drawn to the mantel, festooned with a vision of vines and serpents carved into white marble. The top of it is bare, devoid of the usual ostentatious knickknacks one would expect in bedchambers within such a manse. Above that, a sizeable patch of wall boasts the shadow of pristine paint; shaped like a portrait frame that must have once hung in a place of honor.

“This was one of my childhood homes,” admits Dorothy. “They’ve retained the same staff since I was a girl so I called in a favor.”

“They must have fallen all over themselves to accommodate you.”

He crosses the threshold, stepping into the room with her. Without hesitation, she plops down to sit at the foot of the bed, shadow and light playing on the curves of her form.

“What do you know of falling?”

She crosses her legs to reveal the crimson soles on her sharp-heeled shoes, throwing down the gauntlet. The challenge is clear as he takes his cue to kneel before her, nudging up the fabric of her dress, hand caressing the back of her heel up to her calf before parting her legs by slinging one of them over his shoulder. He pulls her forward, doing the same with her other leg, leaving his head between her knees.

“I know enough.”

Another smirk is likely playing on her lips. He can sense her self-satisfied air from the way her legs embrace him, pushing his head between her thighs. Her feet curl inward, digging her heels in like daggers to his back.

Seeing as she called in favors to prepare for this rendezvous, he foresaw her lack of undergarments. Neither of them were ever dressed in their dreams so this was really more of the same. As he does in their shared visions, he buries his face in the most intimate part of her, tongue seeking out her clit to pervert her control into pleasure.

“Your stubble is bothersome,” she gasps, complaining between suppressed moans.

“So is yours.”

His sass gets him a weak kick to the back of the neck as he smiles around the lips of her sex. It’s clear she got a recent wax but turnabout is fair play. He retaliates by burying two of his fingers inside her, stroking with the same gentle touch he uses on his piano’s ivories. All the while, he carries on lapping at her with his tongue, trying to get her to rise to a crescendo. Though staggered noises escape her, it’s not quite the melody he has in mind. Her sighs flutter to his ears in a lower key than he’s used to playing. Is she… _bored_?

“You’re wearing the same suit from your last press conference. Bold choice.”

He almost chokes on his own tongue just then. His last public appearance was in support of a PAC trying to dismantle her campaign. Her laughter seems to echo as he takes a pause.

“That’s your cue to take it off, Quatre. Must I spell it out?”

She’s prodding at him, trying to get a rise out of more than just his cock. Though their bodies come together in dreams, they remain at odds in the waking world.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

At her behest, he shrugs out of his suit jacket first, relieved to have the weight off his shoulders. Her hand intercepts his fingers as he reaches for his tie, pulling him to her with the silk leash. It’s all he can do to comply, positioning himself atop her, balancing on his arms with his hands on either side of her head.

 _Impatient as always._

She releases his tie upon his compliance, reaching down to untuck his shirt from his trousers. _Predictable._ As she does in his dreams, she feels for the mark she gave him. Her touch snakes to his side, fingernail tracing the raised line of a scar borne from her blade. There’s a smug smirk on her face begging to be wiped off, and he crushes his lips against hers to meet the challenge.

Her pale pink lipstick smears against his mouth as he devours her. The sharp aftertaste of champagne mingles with the tang of her sex as it persists on his tongue. Her teeth catch on his lower lip with each kiss. Robbing her of breath does nothing to stop her from making quick work of the buckle on his belt. Her nimble fingers unbutton his trousers with ease as she bucks up against him.

With a groan, he breaks the kiss. Trying to balance on one hand, he’s frantic to get his boxers down around his ankles and bury himself inside her. Shadows play on her face from the faint light of the fireplace. Her smirk is now smudged from the lipstick all around her mouth though it does nothing to soften her features.

He pushes inside her without warning, sheathing himself with ease as her wetness welcomes him. The smirk gives way to a gasp and he takes it as a small victory. Still balancing on one hand, he pulls down the front of her dress, palming her breasts as he begins to pace his thrusts. His mouth finds a puckered nipple, laving over it with his tongue. As he speeds up in his movements, he surrenders on balance, letting the full weight of his body pin her down. Her bare breasts press against the cotton of his shirt as he perches his head in the crook of her neck. He breathes heavy against the shell of her ear, unable to comprehend the words for the decadence she’s driven him to.

Her legs are now wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back as she gasps and sighs. This is nothing like the facsimiles they played at in their heads though he’s not entirely certain if it’s better. Though he has her pinned, he has no illusions about being the one in control. No, she set the terms long before he even decided to come to this party.

His veins are singing once more, rising to a shattering pitch. She claws at the scar on his side as she comes, lifting her hips and squeezing him tighter with her legs. He empties himself into her with a shudder, struggling to catch his breath. Though her legs loosen around his waist, she makes no move to shove him off her.

 _A quick fuck._ There really was no other definition for it. Neither of them had even bothered with the whole ritual of getting fully undressed.

“Was this what you wanted?” he whispers, almost dreading the answer.

She’s idly tracing his scar with her fingernail again, letting the silence hang for a good minute.

“It’s what I thought I needed to let you go.”

“And?”

“Release is subjective.”

**Author's Note:**

> Art is by yawniverse. I also use it in my [4xD spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1NqyAGjkpXfvsdD8qOrkzx).


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